Don't Close Your Eyes
by midnightneverland
Summary: Nathan has always been captivated by eyes. Every emotion that has ever existed flickers across the eyes like a roll of film. He sees eyes everywhere he goes. He hasn't slept for days.
1. Chapter 1

The thing is, Nathan has always been captivated by eyes. They are both his favorite and most hated part of the human face. Every emotion that has ever existed flickers across the eyes like a roll of film. There's a theory that when one dies, the eye holds the last image they've seen. And when someone dies, and all emotion finally drains from their eyes, there is only a reflective surface, a mirror wiped clean. He stares into the mirror too long in the morning, rubbing his eyes over and over until they are raw. He wishes he could wipe them clean.

He sees eyes everywhere he goes—in the walls, the ceiling, next to his pillow. They watch him silently, his face reflected in the dark pupils, trapped. Sometimes, they're Rachel's eyes, still wide and swollen with tears as she chokes on her screams. Sometimes, they're Kate's eyes, glazed and panicked as she whispers for help. And sometimes, they're Mark's eyes, narrowed and measuring, like the second hand on a clock.

He sees eyes everywhere he goes—and he carves them out, scratching through the surface until there's only darkness. But even in the darkness, they peer through, whispering all the things he's done to them, all the things he'll do. He screams until the silence rings in his ears and his heartbeat thrums so loudly in his head that nothing else exists. He screams and digs through the holes, the sockets that should hold eyes, but only cradle death and memories that won't stay forgotten.

He hasn't slept for days.

That doesn't mean he hasn't tried, through. He locks himself in his room with his pillow pulled tight over his face, whispering over the whispers. He forgets when the sun rises and when it sets because there is only an eye staring through his window, waiting for him to finally snap and come undone. He finally pulls curtains over them but then they vanish and the eye is back, ever watchful.

He is careful as he walks through the hallways, keeping his own eyes forward, his fists clenched to his sides. His anger is like a pendulum, swinging from one direction to the other, and he doesn't know how to hold it still when the eyes are all watching. They're always watching.

Mark tells him to play it cool. He thinks he is being cool because he hasn't tried to punch a hole through the wall yet. And when that nosy bitch Caulfield tries to butt herself in, he doesn't strangle her either. He has wanted to. He has wanted to dive his fingers through her eye sockets until her hatred and her (pity?) curiosity is nothing but blood on his fingers and silence in his ears. He owns her like he owns everyone else in this school, and he rises to her challenge like fire upon ice. He will destroy her.

"Stay out of it," he hisses, pushing past her as they leave class. She is hot on his heels though, her questions like bullets against his back. He whirls around, inches away from her face, and her eyes widen momentarily before becoming guarded again. He smirks, enjoying that he has broken through her bravado for that one moment. "You don't know anything, Caulfield. So stay the fuck out of it." He catches her gaze, holding it until she blinks, and his smirk grows wider. He steps even closer, his chest now brushing against hers before she stumbles back and walks away.

"You don't scare me, Nathan Prescott," she calls back, but he knows he does and he knows it's better that way.

When he finally falls asleep that night, it's Caulfield's eyes that he sees, blue and wide with their innocence before they shatter before him in bloody shards of glass.

He's jittery in class the next day, more so than usual. His leg won't stop shaking and Victoria grabs hold of his hand when he's started to drum his fingers in front of her for the tenth time. He wrenches it away and glares at her and she glares right back.

"What is your deal?" she whispers, and her eyes soften. "I'm getting worried about you."

He wants to fall into her eyes, embrace her softness, ease the rigidness that crackles in his bones. He looks away, muttering, "too much to think about," and leaves it at that. He doesn't like the pity in her sigh.

His gaze flickers to Caulfield who is fidgeting in her seat and he thinks of his dream as he has for the hundredth time already. He can't help but think she might be next; she is the perfect caricature for Mark's project. He doesn't think he can do this another time.

He rips a piece of paper out of his notebook and scrawls a quick note, which he then balls up and hurls towards her. It bounces off her shoulder and lands on her desk and she whirls around to glare at him. He glares right back, once again keeping her gaze captive till she blinks. She unfolds the note.

 _After class. We talk._

She turns to him with raised brows and he just stares.

After class he grabs hold of her arm and yanks her into an empty classroom.

"My friends know where I am," she declares, wrenching her arm free.

He laughs and leans against the closed door. Her eyes flicker between him, the door, and back to him. He smiles at her unease.

"So talk," she finally says, climbing onto one of the empty desks. Her hands clench the edge, ready to jump off should he approach her.

The smile falls from his face and he studies her eyes, the blue that is like a waterfall screaming over the edge of a cliff. He can see everything in that blue, including his own eyes reflected back at him. He squirms and looks away. "You," he pauses, and rakes a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at her. "You need to stay away from Jefferson. Don't be alone with him. Don't talk alone with him. Don't even fucking look at him."

"Why?" she asks, and her voice is a knife in his chest because it's the one question he can't answer. Not even to himself.

"Just trust me," he says and she scoffs at him. He doesn't blame her. She should have no reason to trust him. But when his eyes swivel back to her questioning glare, the blue that is comfort and determination and everything that is the opposite of what rages in his head night and day, he's at a complete loss for words.

He marches up to her, quick as lightning, and grabs hold of her, yanking her chin to meet his gaze. "Because you will fucking die, that's why the fuck you need to listen." She squirms in his grasp, digging her nails into his skin until he can feel blood seep out. And he jerks her mouth towards his, roughly claiming it with his own for one second, two, before he shoves her away and storms out. Her silence behind him rings in his ears but it's the first time in a long time the eyes don't follow him.

He doesn't know if she will listen. He doesn't know if he should care (he does), but he falls asleep listening to whale songs and there are no voices from the dead whispering all their secrets to him.


	2. Chapter 2

She doesn't stay away. He's not surprised. He ignores the knocks on his door, burrowing deeper into the covers until they finally slow, and then stop. He hears muffled arguing outside, possibly Victoria. Then the knocking is back, hard enough that the door shakes in the door frame.

"What the fuck is it?" Nathan shouts, pulling the covers even tighter over himself.

"Nathan, open the door." It's definitely Victoria this time. He considers ignoring her anyway, but she rattles the doorknob as she knocks and he thinks she might break the door down.

He grumbles as he pulls himself out of bed. The carpet is rough against his feet, which are bloody and swollen. He vaguely remembers walking outside barefoot, stumbling in the darkness, searching for something. He isn't sure what it was, or even what he was doing, but he eyes the empty pill bottle by the foot of his bed and it tells him enough.

He cracks the door open far enough to stick his head out. There's an ache in his head that pounds with a vengeance. "What?" he demands and Vic is pushing the door. He keeps his leg firmly pressed against it. It doesn't budge. "I thought you were Caulfield."

"Well, she _was_ here. Why was Blackwell's selfie whore knocking on _your_ door?" Her eyes narrow, but it's the worry that he sees blinking up at him—angry tears that she tucks away with a shake of her head.

He looks away, leaning against the door. "She's a nosy bitch," he mumbles but it's not enough and he knows it.

"Nathan, what's going on?" Her voice is hushed, soft as velvet, and he hates how she spreads it before him carefully, cautiously.

"Nothing is going on," he mutters and she scoffs at him. "She just thinks she's got shit on me. She doesn't know she can't win."

She continues to stare at him. He can feel the weight of her eyes in the bags underneath his own, the hollows of his cheeks, the ache in his head. "I'm just tired, Vic. I'm just so tired."

And then the door slams into his leg as she barrels through, wrapping her arms around him. He feels himself sway and then she's gone, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, passing a nonchalant glance towards the hallway. "Get some sleep, Nate," she says, her voice still soft, but she's shrugging as she leaves his room.

He can feel the weight of her eyes, even as she's gone, the questions that dig at every fracture in his body. He wants to tell her everything, but then he sees Rachel's eyes, open and desperate before him long after she's gone. He won't make the same mistakes.

"Nathan."

Caulfield is waiting by his locker, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him with all the fury of a kitten. He actually smiles as he pushes her aside. "I said stay away, Caulfield. It wasn't a suggestion. It meant stay the fuck away." His words have lost their flame from yesterday; he sounds almost bored and he knows she can tell.

"If you ever fucking touch me-"

"Oh, relax. It wasn't like I ravaged your body or anything." He lets his eyes rake down her body and smirks as she shifts away from his gaze. "Just wanted to get the message across."

" _What_ message? Why did you tell me to watch out for Jefferson? What's going on?"

He clamps a hand over her mouth, craning his head to make sure the coast is clear. "You're an idiot, you know that?" he hisses and she pries his hand away. "We can't talk about this here." He sees her eyes widen and clamps his hand back on her mouth before she can interrupt again. "Or at all. You don't want to be a part of this, Caulfield. Trust me. You drag your feet in here and you won't be crawling out."

He drops his hand as Ms. Grant walks by, busying himself with ripping open his locker door as close to Caulfield's face as he can manage. She winces and takes a step back just before it makes contact.

"I know you have something to do with this. I _will_ find out."

He slams his door closed again, causing her to jump. Her persistence is like pinpricks in his skin and he reaches a hand up to scratch his arm absently. As he turns to catch her gaze, catch the fire that burns there, taunting him, he sees it. One eye, the iris red and watching him, perched in the middle of her forehead.

He pauses, one hand shaky as he reaches for her. She stands stiff and frozen against his hesitant reach. When his finger brushes against her forehead, past and through the unblinking eye, the spell is broken and they both jerk away.

"What the hell are you doing?' she whispers and his hand is like fire as it drops to his side.

"I thought," he begins, then shakes his head because saying it aloud is making it real and he's not ready for that. "I thought you had something on your face. Just your dirty fucking freckles. You're disgusting, Caulfield."

He pushes past her, barely registering her laugh of disbelief. He's losing his fire fast. "Beat it, Caulfield, or else-"

"What?" She's taunting him again, and he won't turn to see her face, but he can practically feel her lean against his locker. He can practically hear her breath as it pushes heavily from her chest. His own breathing matches it. Inhale. Exhale. "Or else what?"

He keeps walking, eyes forward, fists clenched. "I'll make sure you regret it." His words feel empty, but then he thinks of her eyes shattered at his feet and he pulls himself together. He's made too many mistakes.

He goes to class, manages to stay for one period before giving up and heading back to his dorm. His veins are on fire. Every nerve is lit up in energy that makes him want to shake and scream. He pulls his pillow over his head and pushes his screams into it until he's gasping for breath.

She's in his head. Those fucking eyes, the way she tosses his warnings like trash crumpled at her feet. Even the way she quirks the corner of her mouth at his words, like she's over his confidence, infuriates him. He should just toss her into the Dark Room himself, remind her that he's the one in power, that she is nothing, nothing but flesh and bones beneath his feet.

Like Rachel.

Oh, but Rachel. She deserved so much better than he could give her. And if he couldn't take it all back, if he could owe anything to her, if he could save _one person._

He's stumbling around outside again, the mud caked onto his soles dragging his feet heavier with each step. The world whirls around him in a cloud of grey. There are eyes; he can feel them everywhere, burning into his skin. But he's spinning too fast to see them and he'd rather it be that way.

"Rachel." He feels the name fall from his lips though he doesn't recall saying it. He trips over a log and realizes he's at the junkyard. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he ignores it, even as it repeats and then again. His hands are covered in mud and when he finally digs out his phone, it slips from his fingers.

Mark.

It's Mark calling. And calling. And calling. He must know where he is, that he's about to do something incredibly stupid. And he can't risk anymore mistakes.

He backs up from the log, gray skies swirling above him, and stumbles back to his truck and somehow makes it to his dorm.

When Mark calls him again, he stretches his words, tries to stop the staccato of his tongue from showing his panic. He is cool. He is completely cool.

When he awakens, his bed is littered in notebook paper. Every inch is covered in Caulfield's eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

A life for a life. That's the way it always works out. If he wants to save Caulfield, then he'll have to sacrifice someone else instead.

Nathan stands at the wall, the bass of the music pounding into his back. He eyes his target, a soft-spoken brunette near the back of the crowd. He doesn't know her, and perhaps it's better that way. Mark knows her though. She models for some of the art classes, spends her time with her face buried in her sketchbook.

He worms his way through the crowd till he's standing in front of her. He smiles and compliments her smile, leaning towards her ear so she can hear him. He's close enough that his lips almost brush her face. He places a hand on her shoulder as he turns her towards the bar. It's too easy this time and when she thanks him with a peck on the cheek, he has to force himself not to grab her and run away.

He can't do this anymore. If there was some way to find light at the end of this tunnel, Nathan would hurl himself into the darkness to find it.

He can't, he can't, and he's still repeating this mantra as he slips the pill into her drink and hands it to her, winking at her words of thanks. When she catches his gaze, all he can see is the death that will wash over her eyes. Mark promised no more deaths, but Nathan knows that promises are such empty threats these days. He's held enough of them himself.

Another pair of eyes are glass at his feet.

As he looks for Mark, he hears a familiar voice and turns to see Caulfield and the Price bitch talking behind him. They're arguing, Price waving vaguely at the bar and Caulfield facing away with her arms crossed.

Panic flashes like ice in his veins. He knows that she's not the target and he's been careful to lead Mark away from her, but when she's here, she's too close to the web. One more step and she'll get caught in the threads.

He looks for Mark again, but it's hard to spot anyone in the depths of the crowd. He's lucky he even noticed Caulfield.

"What are you doing here?" he says as he reaches her, grabbing hold of her arm and directing her away from the bar.

"Looking for you."

He groans before she's even finished talking because of course she is.

"Get out of here," he growls, leaning close to her, and she flinches as his breath hits her skin. "Look, this place is a hunting grounds for Jefferson. And you're about to hand yourself over on a silver platter. Why can't you just let it go? This isn't Scooby fucking Doo."

"Because if people are getting hurt, then we need to call the police, Nathan. We need to _help_ them."

Her words go in one ear and out the other. He sees Mark now, chatting with the soft-spoken brunette, who is still sipping her drink. They're edging closer and closer to the exit. She won't last much longer than a few minutes. But Mark is all charm and ease. She leans into his smile, watches with hazy eyes as he waves his hands as he speaks. He draws her attention with every finger that beckons. He's animated, captivating. And to anyone else, it would look like they were just having a very intense conversation.

Nathan shifts so that his back is facing him. "No, that won't work. My dad, like, owns the cops. And Jefferson, I mean, he's got everyone wrapped around his finger." He twirls a lock of her hair around his finger and she steps back, slowly.

"Then...then, how do we-"

"Prescott, step the fuck back." It's the Price bitch, fully in his face and grabbing a hold of his hand. She flexes his fingers back until they feel as if they'll snap.

He yelps and yanks his hand away, and when he examines the damage, there are tiny eyes scattered across his skin (like freckles). He shakes them away and glares at Price. "Get your dumbass girlfriend out of here. I'm trying to protect your crazy asses, but you just keep following me, keep asking questions. What do you want from me?" He shoves Price aside and turns his fury towards Caulfield. "Is this what you want?" He knows he's let the rage and panic swallow him, that it's too much, but he can't stop himself. He grabs hold of her arm, yanks her to him so that her chest bumps against his. "I told you if you didn't leave me alone, you'd regret it," he whispers harshly in her ear and when she tries to squirm away, he loops an arm around her waist to keep her still. He can smell her body wash, pulsing with her heartbeat, and he inhales the fruity scent. He has no idea what she's doing to him and if it was any other girl, he would have let her stumble into the web long ago. But this girl, with her eyes now wide with fright and determination, shakes him up till he feels as if he will explode.

There's a fist in his face, a crack of lightning, and he's on his back with Price on top of him. She'd taken him off guard and now she's pummeling her fists into his face. He groans and manages to grasp her hands, struggling as he holds them and manages to flip her down.

"Let her go, Nathan!" Caulfield's screaming at him and he doesn't know why because he hasn't done anything. He pins Price down with his knees, holds her until her struggling weakens the smallest bit.

"Don't you ever fucking touch me," he hisses, his face brushing hers. She spits at him and he wrenches her away.

"Don't you ever fucking touch her," she retorts. She rises to her feet and after he wipes away the spit, he has to keep his fists clenched at his side. His face is swollen and burns from where she punched him. He can feel his anger pulse like a train thundering down the tracks and he wills it to slow, steady.

Caulfield is still standing behind Price, and she's shaking, actually shaking, her eyes (wide, blank) looking through him as if he isn't even there. He feels what little resolve he has break, fracture into millions of pieces that flush through his veins. He wonders, not for the first time, what the difference is between Mark and himself. There's a fine line that fluctuates between him, a crack that pulls the bad away from the good, even on the days where they're muddled together.

"Shit. Okay," he says now, his voice barely audible in the thunder of his heartbeat. "Okay, I'm sorry." He holds out his hands in surrender and he can see them tremble in his face. There are no eyes though. They have vanished for the moment.

He spins around to see that Mark's gone, the girl, too, and they've probably been gone for a while now. His eyes flicker towards the exit and he sighs, nods, before beckoning to Caulfield and Price. "All right, Sherlock, I'll tell you what's going on, but we have to get out of here first. Gimme a ride back?"

"Why should we believe you, motherfucker?" Price counters. She flexes a fist against her side.

"Because I'm all the truth you have right now."

Price scoffs and Caulfield backs away from him, her eyes still on his outstretched hands. It's all the truce he can offer. She blinks, blinks again, then nods, shuffling further away from him. "Is someone going to die?" she asks, but he doesn't answer. Instead, he steps forward and takes her hand in one swift motion. He pulls her through the crowd and to the exit, Price and her protests quick behind them.


	4. Chapter 4

"Your truck's a piece of shit," Nathan observes, holding the swollen part of his face.

"Then get the fuck out of my truck," Price counters.

He scoffs and scans the scenery outside the window. The silence in the truck is like static screaming in his brain.

Caulfield sighs hesitantly and she shifts from her spot between him and Price. They are crammed together in the row of seats, Nathan's long legs bumping against hers from the uneven road. It bothers him that she's so fidgety. She's like a mouse trying to escape the claws of a cat. He feels an urge to wrap an arm around her, panics, and searches for her eyes instead. He can't see them now. They're downcast and hidden by the side of her hair. He rests a hand on her knee to still the bouncing of her leg.

"Cool it," he says bluntly, his gaze flicking back to the window. "You're not helping anything by breaking down in hysterics."

"I'm not hysterical," she retorts and there's a bit of her old fire behind the words.

His gaze swings back to meet her face and he smirks. "All right, Caulfield." He squeezes her knee before letting go. He folds his arms behind his head, making use of the small space between them.

"Not sorry for punching your face, rich kid," Price finally mutters. "Just so you know. You got a hella lot to make up for that shit. So I hope this is worth it."

"Yeah, well, fuck you, Price." But he casts a quick glance at Caulfield who is busy staring at her intertwined hands in her lap. "I might have deserved it." There's a bitter taste in his mouth that he swirls his tongue around and he wrenches one of her hands free. Two pairs of startled eyes meet his and he's sure his own aren't much different. The warmth of her palm is almost as comforting as her eyes. He doesn't know why he's holding her hand like a lovesick twelve-year-old, or what the hell he's supposed to do about that, but she squeezes his hand gently and he relishes the shot of electricity it sends up his arm. He has never wanted to touch someone, just to be close to them, as much as he does right now. He wants to sink into that comfort. He wants the eyes around him to fall like stars and leave him alone in the darkness.

The moment breaks though when she slips her hand free. "Don't ever grab me like that again, though," she mutters, wringing her hands in her lap.

"Or she'll be the one to break your face," Price adds.

He's jarred back to the present and lets out a shaky breath before smiling, slipping the sentimentality towards the back of his mind. "Yeah?" he jeers and the smile stretches into a grin.

"Hey," Price warns and he scoffs, leaning back against the window.

"Just a joke. Not messing with your girlfriend, you prude punk."

"She's not my girlfriend," Caulfield speaks up and he just scoffs again.

"I said I was sorry, okay? What more do you want from me?"

"Unless you want me to drop your ass off in the middle of nowhere, start talking, Prescott," Price warns.

Nathan sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I...it's not good," he begins, and the silence is like waves crashing against him. He can't breathe. He is drowning over and over again. He feels the slight pressure of fingers against the back of his hand. He looks over to see Caulfield has grasped his hand now and when his gaze meets hers, she squeezes it lightly.

"Is someone going to die?" Caulfield asks again.

He sighs again and lets the words tumble out of his mouth. He leaves out details, many details, and the story he tells them is only a skeleton of the horror he's trapped in. He mentions the Dark Room, the pictures, the drugs, and lets the rest trail into silence.

He expects the winces, the hateful grunts, their anger.

"Do you know where Rachel is?"

The question catches him off guard. He can't tell if it's Price or Caulfield who's asked him and when he looks over, it's Rachel that's sitting next to him, tossing her hair over her shoulder and winking as blood pours from her eyes in a web of red.

The sound that slips out of his mouth is hoarse and strangled. It's only when Caulfield is shaking him, her face barely an inch away from his and yelling his name over and over that Rachel vanishes like smoke.

Ashes are at his feet everywhere.

His eyes snap to Caulfield's. He sees the terror reflected in his own eyes and wills his breathing to slow, steady. "All right," he whispers and Caulfield slowly moves back, letting him go.

"Are you okay?" she asks hesitantly. He just looks at her. She nods, slowly. They're back at the dorms, but no one moves to leave the truck.

"You're gonna want proof," Nathan finally says, his hands lingering on the door handle. "To take to the police. But don't go by yourselves, dumbasses. Let me think on it and we can come up with a plan or something."

Caulfield's eyes follow him as he gets out of the truck. He hesitates before taking off, holding her gaze for as long as she lets him. "Seriously, Caulfield. Don't do anything stupid."

She nods, once, but he doesn't believe her. She is full of dumbshit bravery and he knows that one day he will turn his back to find her digging herself into a hole. He just hopes that when the time comes, he'll be there to dig her out.

When he finally makes his way to the Dark Room, the girl is still there, her breathing shallow as she lies unconscious on the sofa. She's not dead and her heartbeat flutters against his touch like that of a hummingbird's. Mark lets him take her back to the dorms and when he parks in front of the dorm entrance, he feels himself coming undone once again. He unbuckles her and she's slowly starting to come out of it, her eyes rolling like marbles from side to side.

"Hey, it's okay," he whispers, and pulls her close to him, her breathing quick bursts of air against his chest. "It's going to be okay." He doesn't realize he's sobbing until the sound hitches in his throat and then the girl pushes against him. She screams and screams and he just sits there, his arms held out in front of him, shaking his head. "Do you need help? I'm going to get you help. I don't know if I can help." She stumbles out of the truck and he lets her make her way inside, her sobs tapering off as the door closes behind her.

He lays his head against the steering wheel, ignoring the blare of his horn. He ventures further and further down the tunnel, but now he wonders if the light is there after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Nathan tosses and turns in his bed, the covers snaking around his legs and tangling. He has no idea how long he's been lying in bed, minutes or hours, but he can't get the screams out of his head. He finally gives up and trips over the empty bottle of vodka on his floor. The world spins around him as he reaches for his pants and shoes. He doesn't know where he's going until he finds himself in front of Caulfield's door.

"Shit," he says and stumbles into the door as he tries to discreetly knock. "Crackfield. Crackfieeeeeeeld." He presses his face against the door and is about to yell out her name again when the door opens and he falls onto her.

"Nathan, what are you doing?" she hisses and tries to push him away. He keeps walking though, right past her, and flops onto her bed.

"I don't know," he moans and as he rolls over, something pokes him in the chest. He pulls out a ratted teddy bear and laughs. "You still sleep with stuffed animals, Caulfield? Does it get lonely at night?"

She crosses her arms and leans against her door, which is still open. "You've got five seconds to explain yourself and I'm kicking you out."

"You mean 'or you're kicking me out?'" He raises an eyebrow and tosses the bear up in a sloppy arc that he has to lean forward to catch.

"No, I'm still kicking you out. So talk."

"I can't sleep." He frowns as the bear bounces off the bed and onto the floor.

"Nathan, it's two a.m. I mean, I'm sorry, but you know, normal people sleep at this time."

"I'm not normal." He laughs and bends over to pick up the bear, cradling it under his arm as he lies back on the bed. His smile dies as he hears the screaming again, feels the girl push against his body as she tries to leaves. She didn't even know who to be afraid of. He could almost see Mark reflected in her eyes as she pushed him away. Mark. Nathan. The line blurs in front of him again. They are two sides of a coin that flips over and over again.

"I've seen things, Caulfield," he says slowly. "And I've done things, too. So many horrible things. Sometimes I feel like I'll never be able to sleep again. Really, sleeping's the least of my problems."

Caulfield sighs and the door closes lightly behind her. She sits next to him, careful to keep her distance. "We're going to get him," she says firmly and when he just stares ahead, unblinking, she scoots closer. "No, we really are. He's going to rot in jail for a long, long time. And he'll never hurt anyone again. And you," his eyes snap towards hers, "it's up to you if you hurt anyone. You're the only one that can stop yourself. You've got to find the control."

There is an enormity of things he hasn't told her yet, and probably never will. She's speaking vaguely, and he thinks that if she knew everything he's done, she wouldn't have let him in her room in the first place.

He scoffs and rolls away from her, focusing instead on the massive joke that's her photo collage. "You've always got the right thing to say, don't you?"

She reaches over and yanks the teddy bear from his arm and he startles backwards. "I'm not sharing my teddy bear with you. You barge in here in the middle of the night and take over my bed, then take my bear? It's blasphemy." She smiles tightly and he reaches forward, his fingers brushing over her lips. He's not sure why he did it— the alcohol, the energy that's rushing like lightning through his blood, the way she bit her lip when forcing the smile, but his fingers press over her lips and suddenly he's reaching up to kiss her.

She makes a surprised sound as his lips move against hers and his hand reaches to the nape of her neck, holding her closer. He can feel the barest of pressure as she opens her mouth, then she pulls away, her hands grasping his arms tightly. "Nathan, you're drunk and—"

"There are a lot of ways you could end that," he interrupts, "but I'm not leaving until you kiss me." Her eyes are wide and he feels himself step into them, feels her sway slightly as he bends towards her again. He kisses her again and this time she leans into him, her hands sliding hesitantly up his arms to wrap around his neck. He deepens the kiss, running his tongue along her bottom lip before delving into her mouth. She sighs and he swallows the sound before relinquishing her lips to travel down her jaw and towards her throat.

She lets out another sigh that he feels her stifle by the vibration underneath his lips. "Wait, I don't think, I mean, this isn't—"

"Stop talking, Max," he says, trailing his hands down her back and across her sides. He grabs her waist and roughly tugs her on top of him, kissing her once again. She responds easier this time, matching the rhythm of his lips before increasing it to a more urgent speed. His hands skim under her shirt, journey up her back. Her skin is warmth around his hands and he feels the energy seep out his nerves and muscles. There's a heaviness in his bones and when she brushes a strand of hair away from his face, he feels his eyes weigh down and close. Then there's only darkness.

 _"Nathan."_

Rachel sits above him, cross-legged. She's floating, and her hair fans out around her as if she were underwater. Her smile beckons him, teases him.

 _"Nathan, come with me."_

He reaches for her but she hovers just a hair's width away from his fingers. She pouts and floats further. He tries to lean forward, but there's something sitting on his chest; it's crushing him. He can feel his ribs collapse, the grasp of fingers digging through his skin and into his bones.

 _"Nathan."_

It's Mark this time, Mark who's reaching into his chest, pulling out his heart and squeezing it in his fist. _"Always take the shot, Nathan."_ He squeezes the heart tighter and it explodes into a spray of blood. He smiles and lifts his hand to his mouth, licking the blood off of each finger.

He feels his chest constrict, the blood leave his body. Then he is floating as the blood pours everywhere—his chest, his eyes, the walls, the ceiling. His body sinks into the blood and it fills his mouth, his lungs.

There's a wail that sounds in his ears; it rises and falls in pitch. He tries to cover his ears but he can't move his hands. The wail just gets louder and louder, a crescendo of sound that rings in his head until he feels that will explode as well.

He sits up gasping for breath. It's only when the air hits the back of his mouth, which is dry and hoarse, that he realizes he was the one screaming. He screams again when he notices there's a person next to him, her hand on his chest and her eyes wide before his face. He tries to push her away but she grabs his hands and grasps them in front of her.

"Nathan, it's okay. It's just a dream. Just a nightmare," she whispers and he leans into her arms, lets her brush his hair back, entangle it in her fingers. Her touch is soft, gentle, and it pulls the anxiety from him one thread at a time. Her heart hammers away in her chest, even faster than his, and he brushes his fingers against her chest, wills it to slow, to steady. There is a warm trail of tears on his cheek and as he reaches to swipe it away, the sobs burst forth, angry and ugly and raw. He lets them fall forth until his voice is hoarse and there is nothing but breath crackling from his lips. The hands continue stroking his hair until he is spent and when he squints up at her, he finally recognizes her.

"Caulfield?" he asks incredulously and shakily raises his face to meet hers to make sure he's not hallucinating again. "What the fuck are you doing in my room?"

She lets out a small laugh. "You're in my room, actually. You barged in here and demanded I make out with you. Then you fell asleep."

"No," he groans and a flash of her lips on his runs through his mind. Warm hands. His lips crushed against her neck. "Fuck."

"I didn't take advantage of you," she says, her voice hushed. "I mean, I would have stopped it before it got anywhere. You were pretty persistent and I guess, I mean, okay, I might have gotten a little carried away."

He rolls his eyes. "Shut up, Caulfield. You were practically a saint." There's something hard underneath him and he pulls out a teddy bear. He tosses it the side, glaring at Caulfield when she starts to laugh.

"Sorry. You kinda snuck my bear back into your arms sometime during the night. I figured it wasn't a battle worth fighting."

He groans again and flops back onto the bed, grabbing one of the pillows and pulling it over his face. "I'm going back to sleep."

"Did you want to talk about it?"

He peers out from a corner of the pillow. She looks at him expectantly.

"Talk about what? Your bear?" The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smile. "Is that why you lured me into your bed, Caulfield? I guess you were lonely after all."

She rips the pillow away from him, the apprehension in her eyes gone. "You know what I'm talking about. Stop being an ass."

He rolls over and pulls the cover over him this time. "That was kinda the point. I don't want to talk about it. Dreams are dreams and all that shit. Everyone has their demons."

"Yeah, but..." She trails off, and he feels the pressure of her hand against his shoulder. He lowers the blanket and catches hold of her blue eyes, wide with emotion he can't understand. "You shouldn't have to face them alone," she finishes.

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth as he struggles for something to say. "Don't," he sighs, his gaze flicking to the wall behind her instead. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not a damn charity case, okay? You can't fix me and get a motherfucking badge for it. You go through shit, you get fucked up. You get fucked up, you go through shit. It's the circle of life."

"Nathan," she whispers and she places her hand against his cheek. He grasps her wrist, attempting to tug it away but the warmth of her hand on his skin is more comforting than he would like. "I'm sorry."

The words are like a flame to ignition and he pushes himself away from her, tumbling off of the bed. "No," he yells and he grabs a shoe next to him, throwing it at her. "No, you don't get to tell me that. You don't know anything. You don't see what I see, hear what I hear. You don't have nightmares and then see the same fucking thing as you're walking to class and try to remember which came first, which is the real thing. You don't have to wonder if you're going to kill someone, if you can save someone, if their eyes are going to follow you forever. If they'll ever stop screaming or crying. You don't fucking know, Caulfield. So don't you motherfucking tell me you're sorry just because I cried over a goddamn nightmare."

"Nathan." Her voice is louder now, battling against his rage, but the fight is mostly in his head and his energy is weakening. She holds his arms to keep him from hitting her. He's thrashing everywhere—elbows against the wall that he'd backed himself into, feet against the nightstand, head against her shoulder. He wants to push her away, shove her through the wall, far, far away from him, but she's stronger than he'd have imagined. The fight that he had left in him is failing quickly and this time, she's stronger than him.

"Nathan, it's okay."

He slumps against the wall, defeated. When his head drops down, it brushes against her forehead and they rest there, chests heaving, her hands still tight around his arms. "It's okay," she says again.

He sighs and she blinks as his breath hits her face. "Let go," he whispers and she does, resting her hands on his legs instead. He turns his head away, but she is still close enough that he breathes in every exhale she makes. "Goddamnit, Caulfield. I could have hurt you."

"Yeah, well, you didn't. So that's saying something."

He barks a laugh and rises to shaky feet, brushing past her as he does. "I'm going back to my bed. I need real fucking sleep." She looks up at him from her spot still on the floor beside him. "So, thanks or whatever. It's been real...real."

She smiles tightly and he thinks of how he'd brushed his fingers over that same smile the night before. His hand balls into a fist at his side and he leaves, relishing the sound of the door as it slams against the wall. He doesn't know what she's doing to him, but he feels he will snap if he doesn't figure it out soon enough.


	6. Chapter 6

Nathan spreads the sheets of paper around him, willing the words he'd scribbled down to make sense. Any sense. There's a plan to be made somewhere in the depths of his mind, and all he has to do is link the words together. If they could catch Mark in the act, or if Nathan could slip away with enough evidence—but he doesn't know how they could pull it off.

He doesn't take many pictures for Mark anymore, which is to be expected. Mark likes everything exactly in its place and Nathan is as unpredictable as they come. He walks him through the process and he assists with bringing the girls in, but as for taking pictures recently, he's been remarkably absent. He can't walk up to his camera without his vision clouding or his fingers feeling as if needles have been stabbed into every joint.

It's probably why Mark has been checking up on him more and more, pulling the leash a little tighter, calculating every step he takes. Nathan takes the same path to every class and back to his dorm. He tries to make his outings as routine as brushing his teeth or tying his shoelaces. He hopes Mark will buy into the pattern as he does with most organized things, because his heart is a mess of erratic beats and panic.

He pushes the papers away, the ripped edges catching on the corner of his desk. His phone bleeps a text from his pocket.

 _Breakfast?_

It's Vic and he types a haphazard _yes_ before getting dressed. A break could be exactly what he needs. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing them to see something he's missed. His hands shake as he runs a comb through his hair.

Caulfield stands behind him in the mirror, her skin pale and mottled, a faded copy that shouldn't feel as real she does beneath the glass. She leans against the wall with a smile twisting one corner of her mouth.

"Breakfast?" she mocks, jumping at the glass, pounding the mirror between them with her fists.

"What do you want?" he asks. He roots through the basket on his dresser for his toothbrush, knocking it over when he can't find it.

"What do you want?" she mimics and she jumps from the mirror to the window, tears of blood running down her face. Her eyes are twin circles of red that she blinks rapidly, spilling more down her cheeks. "What _do_ you want, Nathan? Is it me? Is this all you want?" She pulls at her shirt till it rips down the middle, her flesh raw and rotten beneath the fabric. "Oh, too late." The flesh drops from her ribs, the bones shining in the sun's reflection.

He screams and throws a book at the window, not even flinching when the collision sends a web of cracks across the glass. Now five Caulfields stare back at him instead of one. They're silent, but still wearing the same twisted smile.

"Leave me the fuck alone," he whispers and turns his back to the window. He grabs his phone and his keys, ignoring the laughter that echoes in his head and behind him.

"Are you gonna eat?" Victoria asks, her fork poised over her scrambled eggs.

Nathan looks down at his stack of pancakes that, for all he cares, could very well be a stack of styrofoam. He's lost his appetite completely. "Do you want it?" he sighs but Vic crinkles her nose and takes another small bite of her breakfast.

"You haven't slept," she observes and he rolls his eyes. He knows the bags under his eyes are too dark and his pants are much looser on him these days. But aside from his little outburst in his room, he thinks he's been remarkably calm lately.

"Sleep is for the weak," he mutters. He focuses on his coffee instead, swirling the dark liquid in the mug.

"You know if you mess up your grades anymore—"

"Vic, don't. I'm fine and my grades aren't going to fucking be the death of me. So, relax."

Victoria purses her lips and pushes her own half-eaten plate aside. "Don't be like that, Nathan," she begins. "I'm just worried, okay? I'm allowed to be worried. That's what _friends_ do." She rolls her eyes and he sips his coffee. "You're going to the party this weekend, right?"

He grunts in response.

"Nathan, it's your party."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going. Gotta bring the supplies, right?"

"I've gotta head back for class." He can hear the irritation spike through her words.

She spreads her hands out against the table, raising to her feet. He studies the stucco pattern of the table beneath her hands, the lines that are like spider-web cracks in a windowpane. She snaps in front of his face. "Nathan, did you hear me?"

"Yeah, I need to head back, too." He catches hold of her gaze, too heavy for his liking, and a small smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. He ruffles her hair, despite her screech of horror, and heads towards the exit laughing.

"Completely unnecessary," Victoria calls after him.

He turns around to face her, shrugging, as he crashes into someone behind him.

"Watch where the fuck you're going," he mutters, trying to push past the person, but Caulfield's wide eyes catch him off guard.

"Hey, Nathan," she says softly. She backs up to build space between them.

"Max," he tries out, and winces when she smiles up at him. He doesn't know if she expects an apology, but he juts out his chin in defiance.

She still doesn't move except for her tip of her shoe that she tries to dig into the sidewalk between them.

"What's up, Caulfield?" he prods but doesn't wait for her answer as he walks out the door. He doesn't want Victoria's curious eyes following him.

Caulfield, unsurprisingly, does follow him. "Chloe and I were working out how to sneak into Jefferson's—"

"No," he states simply.

She gapes at him as she scrambles for a response. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"No," he repeats. He leans against the window next to him, unable to stop the smirk that slips onto his face.

"Nathan," she sighs. She pulls at her hair in her frustration. "We're running out of time. We need a plan now and if you're not going to help—"

"I haven't thought of one yet, okay?" he interrupts again. He wants to pull her hands away from her hair, smooth down the chaos she's raised there. The thought makes his stomach turn and he clicks his tongue to keep from yelling at himself.

He steps forward and she matches his step, her small strides rushing to keep up with his. "And I told you not to run in there all headstrong and Gryffindor and get your ass killed, right?" he continues.

Caulfield's lips twitch into a smile. "Gryffindor?" she asks.

Nathan pushes past her as he heads towards his truck. "Shut up. I was making a point," he shouts behind him.

She follows him to his truck and he throws an exasperated look her way before opening the door. "I didn't figure you for the type," she says, breathless from trying to keep up with him.

"Yeah, well, there's a lot you don't know about me."

Her eyes dip to watch the curve of his smile and he turns away, climbing into the truck. "Need something else?" he asks, watching as a blush creeps over her face. He grins.

"No. I mean..." She takes a shuddering breath and turns away from him. Her face is almost scarlet now. "Could I have a ride back? I took the bus here," she continues, still not facing him.

"You just got here," he points out. He can't drag his eyes away from the freckles dotted beneath the blush on her skin. He scowls at them instead.

"I was looking for you. Victoria said you'd be here."

"Vic?" Her words catch him off guard. He looks towards the diner, but Victoria's long gone. He finds it strange that she hadn't mention Caulfield.

"Yeah, I...please?"

"Well, if you're gonna beg me." He opens the passenger door for her, and she keeps her head downcast to hide the blush that has still lit her entire face red.

"You get embarrassed too easily," he informs her as she snaps her seatbelt in place.

"Thanks, captain obvious."

He barks a small laugh and pulls out of the parking lot. His thoughts drift to the plans he'd tried to draw out that morning, the multitude of dead ends. He thinks of the red binders on the shelf, so meticulously labeled and shelved. Each page had been thoroughly organized with the best pictures.

It hits him like a slap to his face that this is what makes it such perfect evidence. This is what he needs to steal. Everything that has crept into his nightmares and bled through the windows, the mirror, the eyes staring up at him from the passenger seat beside him, everything is in those binders. He just needs to find the perfect moment to slip in and steal them.

"So, Chloe and I thought—"

"Shut up, Caulfield." He waves aside her words and she clicks her tongue in disagreement. "We're going to have do this while Jefferson is tied up at school. I know his routine, so I can maybe grab a binder or something. That'll be our proof, right?"

It seems easy. Too easy, actually and with the way Mark has been watching him lately, he's not even sure if he can sneak away to the Dark Room without being noticed. But there's no way he's sending Caulfield in there without him.

"That's it?" she asks, frowning up at him.

"We can work out the details." He reaches to switch the radio off, the noise suddenly too much for the static in his brain. His arm brushes against hers and she jerks away, rubbing where they'd made contact. "You're jumpy," he observes, smirking again.

"Sorry. I just..." She clears her throat and lets the silence swell between them.

"You just what?" Nathan finally asks. "Spit it out, Caulfield."

"I, uh, I've just thought a lot about that night. You know, when we..." She trails off again, her attention focused on the window next to her.

"You know, if you speak in complete sentences I could probably understand what the hell you're talking about." He knows exactly what she's talking about, but he's enjoying the way she squirms next to him.

"When we kissed," she says bluntly, all of her breath pushed out into that one phrase.

It makes his own breath catch, but he lets it out in a quick huff, hiding it. "What about it?" He tries to sound bored, but he can feel the fire rushing through his veins, white-hot and itching for movement.

"I don't usually kiss people like that."

"Usually or never?" His mouth twitches as he restrains another smirk. He focuses on the line of the road, the unwavering pavement that ticks on endlessly beneath him. It's nothing like the unsteady rise of Caulfield's chest as she keeps herself in check.

"That's not the point."

He can hear her voice crack like the pebbles beneath his tires. He can't help but wonder how else he could make her voice crack like that, trembling and low beneath him. The thought digs its way in and plants itself deeply like a weed he can't unroot.

He pulls over to the side of the road and Caulfield's wide eyes meet his dark ones. "It was just a kiss," he says as if he didn't just pull over and pull the keys out of the ignition. He unbuckles his seat belt.

"I, Nathan, your—"

He cuts her off again for the fourth time that morning, his lips claiming hers much more urgently than they had that previous night. His fingers thread through her hair, wrapping it around his knuckles as he pulls her closer. Closer. The warmth of her body against his eats away all his reasoning. Her hands hover around his shoulders as if she's torn between pushing him away and holding on. She holds on.

He parts her lips with his tongue, pausing for a single moment to let her back off and when she doesn't, he plunges forward, tasting the warmth of her mouth before claiming her tongue as well. He feels her familiar sigh against his mouth and groans against it. He releases her hair, trailing his fingers down her spine before encircling her waist. The hem of her shirt bunches around his hands and he presses them against the small strip of bare skin.

His mouth breaks away to taste her jawline, her throat, and when he nips against her pulse point that pushes frantically against his mouth, she gasps as if she'd been holding her breath the entire time.

"See?" he murmurs against her skin, "just a kiss."

"What are you doing?" she manages to ask as his fingers travel higher, swirl across her belly button, tickle across her rib cage.

 _What are you doing to me, Caulfield?_

Her skin is flames against his touch and his own skin feels far too warm. He is drowning in heat. "I don't know," he admits and she utters a soft laugh. His thumbs brush against the bottom swell of her breasts and her breath catches again. This time her hands do push him away, and he catches her lips in a quick kiss before his back hits the seat.

"Nathan, I can't..." She takes another shuddering breath. "I don't want to do this in a truck on the side of the road," she says with another brief laugh, brushing her hair away from her face. Several pieces stick to her forehead still.

"With me," Nathan finishes, because he can sense it in between her words.

"You don't even like me," she clarifies and he wishes he could still say those words as easily as she did. He's said them often enough.

"No, I find you repulsive," he counters and grabs her hand, leading it to the erection pressed tightly against his pants.

She jerks her hand away, giving him a withering look. "You know what I mean."

He sees himself in that moment in two distinctly different directions. In one, he pulls her back to him, all heat against his cold thoughts, her lips silent against his darkness. He tells her that she's enough, that she's all he needs to drag himself out of this. He kisses her until he's the one who can no longer breathe.

In the other, he puts the keys back in the ignition and starts the car. He keeps his eyes on the road and attempts to ignore her own wandering gaze that tries to dig holes into his mind and pull forth answers she doesn't want.

It was never going to be the first one.

When they reach the parking lot to the dorms, he turns the car off and sits in the silence. He waits for Caulfield to leave, but she doesn't. Her hands are still firmly planted in her lap.

"What are you waiting for?" he grunts. He reaches for his own door, though he doesn't open it.

"I don't get you, Nathan," she confesses. She gives him one last faltering glance before turning away again. "I just want to help you. I'm trying. Hell, I am _trying,_ but you push me away and yank me back. You treat me like shit and then you hold my hand and you look at me like _that."_ Her eyes meet his again, wide and panicked. He has no idea what she sees in his but it terrifies him. "And it tells me that maybe I should stick around. I don't know." She flicks the door handle harshly, the _snapsnapsnap_ deafening in her pause. "I don't even know what to think about you."

He pulls her hand away, scraping his nails against her own. "It's easy. You don't."

She yanks her hand away. "You don't make it so easy."

"Well," he says, leaning over her to open her door. "I guess it wouldn't be fair if things were always easy." He presses one firm kiss against her mouth, nipping her bottom lip before pulling away and getting out. He doesn't look back to see her expression. He thinks it's better this way. He can deal with anger. He can deal with distrust. He can't deal with the other side of the spectrum.

He does, however, see the calculated glare of Mark as he walks past the dorms, a stack of files tucked under one arm. His eyes flicker from him to Max before his scowl deepens. Nathan tries to play it off with a casual salute as he walks away from Caulfield.

But the next day, when he spins around in a chair in the Dark Room, waiting for Mark to finish his note taking, the red binder that's tossed in front of him catches him off guard. It's the same as all the others except that the name on the side screams back at him in its utilitarian scrawl.

 _Max Caulfield._

The laughter in his head screams and screams.


	7. Chapter 7

It's amazing how quickly everything spirals out of control. Dominoes topple from every direction around him. Nathan has timed his routines down to the second—in class, out of class, back to dorms. Save for his little run-in with Caulfield, he thinks Mark would be proud of his perfected schedule. But of course, it doesn't work that way.

The binder stares up like one unblinking eye before him. Max's name pasted on the spine beats like a mantra in his head that he can't stop. _Max Max Max Max._ He feels as if he's drowning in it.

"You let her get into your head," Mark chastises Nathan, his finger tapping the binder between them. "That's your first mistake. You let her into your head, and probably your pants if you'd gotten more careless and—Nathan, pay attention." He builds into a shout and the last two words are a burst of noise against Nathan's ears. It reminds him so much of his father's words that for a moment, he sees his father standing before him, his hand like a whip before his face.

But Mark doesn't hit him. He rests his hands like silent weapons between them because that's where all of Nathan's attention falls. "Remember Rachel?" Mark adds, and now he's taunting him.

Rachel cries beside him, her skin bone-white, her eyes rotted. The sound is muffled against her hands as she cowers by his legs. His leg trembles and she fades away, nothing more than a shadow on the floor. "No, I don't remember that at all," Nathan mutters and sneers up at Mark. "Apparently, you don't either."

Mark slams his hand against the binder. "Don't get smart with me. We learn from our mistakes. You have potential, Nathan, but if you can't focus, then we're going to have to end this right now." He pulls a gun out of his pocket, passes it steadily from hand to hand. "We have options. Which one would you like?"

"Jesus _Christ_ , Mark." He eyes the gun and the muscles in his leg immediately clench. He can't even breathe.

"I can't afford any more mistakes," Mark says, his words clipped.

"She's not in my head," Nathan says, because it's not the way Mark thinks she is. He doesn't know which way it is. "I just gave her a ride back. I was just fucking around with her. It's not like she'd ever do anything anyway. She's Saint Caulfield."

"Remember," Mark shouts again and Nathan flinches, "the point of this project. I won't have you corrupting my subjects, Nathan."

"I'm sorry," Nathan whispers and when Mark raises the gun, he slides out of his chair onto the floor. He's almost five again, curling against the rage of words above him. There's thunder on his father's desk as his father hits and kicks it, but Nathan won't move until it's quiet again.

It makes sense to Nathan that it would all circle back to that point. He hugs his knees close to his chest, bone against bone, unsure of what impact he should brace himself for.

But Mark places a hand on his shoulder, heavy and gentle, the gun put away. "Then you know what to do," he says.

Nathan just hugs his knees closer and bites at the sob weighted between his lips. He's stronger in his silence, he thinks, and it's silence he gives Mark now. Mark's footsteps as he walks away are as calculated as the rest of him, the circular click of a second hand on a clock. _Tick. Tock. Click. Click._

Time never stops.

* * *

He's doing the right thing. That's what he tells himself as he picks up Price, who takes far too long getting into the truck and scowls the entire time he describes his plan. "I get in, grab the binder, and leave. You just look out."

He has a handful of minutes to achieve this before something can go wrong. But he lets the words fill into the cab of the truck, anything to keep his mind focused. He feels Mark's hand, gentle but heavy on his shoulder, and there's still a small twinge of _I want to make you proud. I just want you to love me. I have so much potential._ He grips the steering wheel tighter and exhales sharply, forcing the words out of his head. There's no more room for that here.

"Keep watch," he tells Price when they arrive, who rolls her eyes and leans against the barn door.

"Why are we doing this without Max?" she asks him for the tenth time and this time it's Nathan who rolls his eyes. He wouldn't have brought Price here if he didn't need a lookout. If it was up to him, he wouldn't come within a ten-mile radius of her, but there was no way he was bringing Caulfield here. All he can think of is Mark's hand against his shoulder and her eyes open before him and he doesn't know which betrayal is worse because if something were to happen to her, he would snap. So, leaving her behind in the safety of her dorm is the best he can do at the moment.

"Because it's fucking Caulfield. I don't want her anywhere near this place," he answers. He doesn't tell Price why. He can't tell her why. "Five minutes," he tells her instead. "I'm just getting a binder."

Mark is tied up with student conferences—some middle-of-the-semester bullshit that Nathan never bothers himself with because he doesn't care what his teachers think of him. His dad can just throw more money at them. It's ridiculous and he knows this, but the voices in his head are much louder than the voices outside his head. And all of the rules are spoken by the muddled voices outside.

"What's that?" he asks, his eyes darting towards the door.

"What?" Price asks, her own gaze sweeping lazily to meet where he's staring.

"Voices," he whispers and the smirk drops from Price's face.

"What the hell are you smoking, Prescott? There's nothing out here but birds and shit."

 _Is it me, Nathan? Is this all you want?_

"No," he shouts a little too loudly. He whirls around to head downstairs so he doesn't have to see Price's expression. He's already seen it on a hundred different faces.

The binders are lined on the shelf as neatly as they always are, Caulfield's being the end that holds them straight. He considers ripping it from the shelf and stomping on it until it's a mess of broken plastic. But his hands are steady as he pulls a different one from the shelf, one with a name he hasn't let himself think of for a while now.

 _Kate Marsh._

Kate is a can of worms he refuses to open. Kate is a darkness that has sunk so low that it makes the waves churn across the surface. He can't even remember her for the fullness of that moment, only jagged shards of memory that line up unevenly in his mind.

He remembers slipping her the pill. He remembers being fucked up himself. Her being passed around from guy to guy as easily as any other party favor from that night. When she settled into his arms, small and weightless as an injured bird, he crushed her body to his, carried her to his truck and let the darkness pull at the strings of his nerves and muscles. He buried his lips in the haphazard beat of her pulse, one hand on the fabric of her skirt. And then he stopped, his nails dragging away from her skin, digging crescent moons into the palms of his hands.

 _Let me take you to a hospital,_ he told her, over and over, even as he buried her in the blinding light of the Dark Room, duct-taped and slack-jawed.

There was no redemption there.

 _I don't want to do this in a truck on the side of the road._ Caulfield's words float back to him and he thinks it's better that they didn't. He is nothing but a predator in a fool's cloak.

He slips the binder into his bag, ignoring Kate's soft whimpers echoing around him. He has no time for ghosts, past or present. But as his hand rests on the stair railing, he pauses to gage the darkness around him that, for once, seems oddly comforting.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

There is no redemption here.

His steps are heavy on the stairs, as if they're pulling him under. He wishes he could let them.

"That was more than five minutes," Price scolds him but he just walks past her towards the truck. "You know, Max is going to kill you for not taking her with us."

He scoffs. "You didn't see anything?" he prompts, glancing behind him.

"Birds and shit. This psycho standing in front of me. Can we head back now or should I look for a pitchfork to beat your crazy ass with?"

"Shut up and get in the goddamn truck." He starts the engine without waiting for her response.

She grumbles as she slams the door beside her.

"The party tonight. Are you going?" he asks while she fiddles with his radio. He considers slapping her hand away. He hates the static in between the radio stations and he's not letting Price root through his music collection.

She lets out a hollow sort of laugh. "Are you inviting me?"

"Don't go." He turns the radio off and she kicks her feet onto his dashboard, ignoring his glare.

"I hadn't really planned on it."

He glances down at his bag that lies between them, Kate's binder nestled inside. His time is running out. "Don't let Max go either."

"Right. I'm really gonna have to drag her away from that scene. She'll be devastated." She pulls her hat a couple of inches lower, blocking him from her view.

"I'm fucking serious. He wants Max." The letters on her binder flash ink black in his head. He presses down a little too hard on the gas and the truck revs forward angrily. He feels his foot slip off the pedal, even though it doesn't. Everything falls forward too quickly, too much out of reach.

Her eyes snap towards his. "You said—"

"He changed his mind. No, that's not it. He's always had his eye on her. He just changed his mind on _when._ " He's rambling now, the words too slippery on his tongue and he swallows to make them fall silent.

Her feet drop from the dashboard as she sits straight up. "Why? What the hell happened? Did you do something? I swear to God, Prescott, I'll rip your balls off and feed them to you before the cops are done with you."

"I didn't do a damn thing." _No, that's not it._ But he won't tell her that. "Look, the fucking point is don't go to the party. Keep Max safe tonight. I'm going to the police station before the party. If all goes according to plan, nothing will happen."

"Something will always happen, Prescott," she says warily and the way her gaze washes over him, plucking at all the tiny fractures, reminds him that she will never trust him either. It wasn't too long ago when her eyes were glass beneath him as well.

 _There is no redemption here._


	8. Chapter 8

Nathan drops Chloe off at her house and heads back to campus. His leg tenses when he turns the truck off, the nervous energy back.

 _Is it me, Nathan? Is this all you want?_

"Max, you dumbass," he mutters, pulling his phone out. He scrolls through his contact list over and over again before realizing he doesn't have her number.

"Fuck." He tosses his phone to the floor. He knows who does have it though. He slams the truck door behind him and saunters into the girls' dorms.

"You talked to Caulfield," he accuses, leaning inside Victoria's doorway.

"Well, look at you," she greets him, and it's only when he catches his reflection in her mirror that he realizes what she's talking about. There's a fire in his eyes, a kind that catches him completely off guard. He's so used to seeing anger that he doesn't know what to do with the wildness that glares brazenly back at him.

He looks pointedly away.

"Vic, please," he says instead. "Answer me." He has to lower his voice, turn the dial practically to zero, because everything is screaming in his brain. White noise spikes to a shout and he can even see it creeping into his vision in a surge of vines.

"You didn't ask me a question." She purses her lips, but there's a smile at the corners.

"Why did you talk to Caulfield?" His voice is barely a whisper now.

The smile falls quickly from Victoria's lips. " _She_ talked to _me._ She said she had something important to talk to you about. I thought it was a stupid assignment or something, but you're really in a mood about it, aren't you?" She's frowning now, her guard completely up and setting camp around him. "Please tell me it's not what I'm thinking now."

This time the anger does flash in his eyes. He can feel it burn into his blood. "You don't know anything—" He stops himself before he can lash out any further. "I'm sorry, Vic. I don't mean it."

"Of course not," she says softly. She tosses down the book she'd been reading and stares up at him as if he's cracked himself open for her to examine. "Is there something I need to know?"

"No." He whirls around to leave, kicking the door on the way out.

"Nathan, what is going on?" she demands. "Besides you trying to massacre my door."

He considers marching away in silence but then he remembers the reason he'd stopped by in the first place. He turns back around. "I need her number."

"Oh, of course you do," she says, guard still up. She pulls her phone out anyway, scrolling through her contacts. She looks at him expectantly.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I've just been stressed lately." Hollow words, hollow tone. It's his blanket apology and he wonders how long she'll accept it from him. The guilt blooms heavily in his chest but he can't drag her into this as well. "I shouldn't take it out on you."

She hands him her phone, her grasp stiff enough that he has to tug it free. "You're not going to tell me what this is about, are you?"

"Another time," he promises too quickly.

She sighs, ruffling his hair this time. It startles him into a few steps backwards and she chuckles softly.

When he heads back to his dorm, he collapses onto his bed and kicks his shoes off, each one tumbling into a different direction. He twirls his phone in his hands, a blank message staring back at him.

 _caulfield,_ he types, but nothing else comes to mind. Nothing he should tell her, at least.

 _cum to my room_

 _i need 2 c u_

 _i cant stop fukin thinkn abt u_

 _godamit caulfield_

 _ur in my fukin head_

No, nothing he should tell her.

He grunts and tosses the phone to the side. It bounces off the wall and onto the floor. He screams at himself instead. _What the fuck is wrong with you?_

He hears the other Caulfield laughing in the mirror again, but he doesn't smash it. He still sees her in the broken window and he'd rather see all her face than the five pieces that watch him pace his room at night.

He hears Mark's words follow him, warning him to keep her out of his head, away from him. This is the opposite of what he's supposed to be doing, but he's done taking orders. He's been against authority his whole life, so why, in the span of a semester should it be any different? In some ways, Mark is just like his father. He suspects somewhere in the back of his mind (or the front now, everything's up front), that Mark never really cared for him anyway. It hits him in a dull throb, the way a cut does when he's at the peak of an adrenaline rush, the blood long dry before he notices. He thinks it might have always been there, pulsing in the cloak of his thoughts, waiting for the moment he pulls the scab free and holds it bleeding in his hands.

But Caulfield, as many times as he's pushed her away, keeps coming back. He doesn't think she cares, not really, but she thinks enough of him to keep returning. To keep asking. To keep pushing. And she doesn't ask for anything to return. She's an open surrender.

He picks up his phone and tries again.

 _caulfield_

 _dont go to the party_

 _jeffersons got plans_

This he does send. He taps his phone against his lips and his phone bleeps her response a moment later.

 _Nathan?_

He smirks at her obliviousness, her obviousness, and sets back to the task of texting the impossible.

 _cum see me insted._

He rolls his thumb up to delete it and hits send instead.

"Fuck. No. Fuck. Goddamnit. WHAT IS THE MOTHERFUCKING POINT."

His phone bleeps again.

 _I don't think I should. Sorry._

It's the window that he throws his phone now. He's only vaguely concerned if it's broken because it'll mean he can't text her back.

He clasps his hands into fists in front of him, willing all the nervous energy to settle, willing the laughter to stop. He clasps his hands tight enough that his knuckles grow numb, his pulse throbbing in his fists. When he can stand it no longer, he retrieves his phone and examines the small crack that's now sliced through the screen. It could have been worse.

 _im sorry for the other day_

 _im a jackass_

There's a delay before her next text, long enough that he thinks she's done talking to him.

 _Wait, is the great Nathan Prescott actually apologizing to me?_

He smirks as his fingers move over the screen.

 _cum over and ill make it up 2 u_

 _no tricks_

The delay before her answer is even longer but then the one word answer flashes like a symphony in his head.

 _Okay._

His slides down against the wall, his smile so tight across his face he can barely feel it.

When she knocks on his door, the sound so hesitant it's like a question, he opens the door to stare down at her.

"No tricks?" she repeats.

"No tricks," he answers and she nods as she brushes past him.

"I should have gone with you, asshole," she proclaims as she sits on his sofa. She glances around his room, seemingly discomforted by the dim atmosphere and wall art.

"Problem?" he asks. He closes the door and leans against it. When her eyes flick towards the closed door, he's reminded of the first time he approached her in the empty classroom. Her expression is remarkably similar.

"No," she says, purposely avoiding the bondage posters.

"I didn't want to risk it. If you got hurt or some dumb shit," he answers her earlier question.

"Oh, but you had no problem risking Chloe getting hurt," she counters and taps her foot against the floor.

He rolls his eyes. "That bitch needs to keep her mouth shut."

"That _bitch_ is my best friend. Don't talk about her that way." She rises to her feet, glaring up at him as if he isn't blocking her only exit from the room.

This wasn't going as well as he'd planned.

He holds his hands up in surrender. "Look, Mark isn't interested in Price. He's interested in _you,_ so you're more of a risk. Plus, no offense, but I think she can hold her own a lot better than you."

"What?" Suddenly, she's stomping across the room, her arms hovering in front of him as if she wants to shove him but is thinking better of it.

"Oh, you think you're full of fight?" He leans towards her just enough that she steps back. He steps forward, matching her step. "If I were Jefferson and you hesitated like that—bang, you're dead." He holds his index finger and thumb against her temple, pushing down his thumb in an imitation trigger.

She gulps, her eyes wide, and he withdraws his hand slowly.

"Gotta work on those reflexes," he murmurs.

"I can hold my own," she insists and his lips stretch into a shark's smile.

His hands hook around her waist, pulling her closer. He steps forward, causing her to stumble back until her heels hit his bed frame. She falls back onto the mattress and he leans over her, his lips inches from her own. "Can you?" he whispers. He grabs her wrist, holding it behind her before grabbing the other one as well. "Still dead."

"You said no tricks," she says, her voice wavering.

"This isn't a trick. You want to fight? I want you to see what you're up against."

"You're not Jefferson." The admission tumbles from her lips with such force that he drops her wrists in surprise.

"That's not the point," he tries to argue but she shakes her head.

Her eyes stare into him, pulling him apart, and whatever she finds, it's enough to have her place her palm against his chest. "You're not," she insists.

He scoffs and has the mad urge to grab her wrists again and scare the softness out of her.

"Why do you want to protect me so badly? Why aren't you off chasing down all the other potential victims?" Her palm presses gently against his chest and he finds his eyes closing in spite of himself.

"Because..." He can't grasp the words. He wants to throw some joke about who would take horrible selfies, who would give Victoria grief, who would follow him around, questioning all his motives, but all he can do is stare down at her eyes that are too open and asking below him. He has no answers for her.

"Nathan," she says and he doesn't know what she's about to say but suddenly she's pulling him down and pressing her lips against his. Her kiss is light, barely skimming past his own lips and he resists the urge to deepen it.

"Max, you don't..." He trails off, his voice much hoarser than he'd have liked. He's suddenly aware that he's pushing her down onto his mattress, her body soft beneath his. He can't find the right words.

"You said you'd make it up to me," she whispers against his mouth, her fingers pressed against his chest, and his eyes drift shut again. "Stop pretending. For five minutes. Just be real with me for five minutes."

He feels his resolve slipping and he sighs. "Real about what?"

"Anything," she breathes.

His eyes snap open to find hers piercing into him. She's challenging him, daring him to move past the barrier he's set so far back, he can't remember when. But when he gazes back at her, it isn't a dare that he sees. It's a plead.

"Your eyes," he whispers harshly and he presses his thumbs against the outer corners of her gaze, stroking lightly. "Don't close your eyes."

She jerks in his grasp, pausing at his words and his touch. "Why?"

Her confusion startles him and his thumbs dip down, resting on her cheekbones instead. Her eyes stare up at him with no caution. They are the finish line and he's _so close,_ but he doesn't know how much further he'll have before he makes it. He doesn't know if he can make it.

"I need to see you. I need you to see me," he rushes on and bends down to kiss her again before she can laugh or scoff. Her eyes stay open, wide before his own as his lips move against hers. She watches him as his tongue slips through, urgent against hers. She watches him as his hands trail down her face and across her throat, one long finger at a time. She watches him as his head drops down to follow his fingers, glancing up to study her as he places kisses against her collarbone.

When his hands sweep across her chest and settle at her midriff, thumbs brushing against the peek of skin above her jeans, he pauses. White hot heat flashes through his chest, settling deep into his groin. It takes all of his strength not to grind up against her on the bed. Her breaths heave unsteadily above him and her hands are tangled in his hair.

"Want me to stop?" he mumbles against her stomach.

She pauses and he can feel her try to slow her breathing to a more tolerable pace. "I don't know," she admits and he knows she's thinking about the time in the truck, what's changed between then. It feels horrifically different this time, with her arms wrapped around his head as he's nestled against her stomach. He has put aside the barrier ( _for five minutes, just five minutes_ ). He feels stripped and vulnerable, even as he's fully clothed.

All his life, he has tried to burrow closer to _something—_ something warmer, something fuller, something to numb the chaos in his head. And he has burrowed himself in many a warm body, heartbeats thrumming, teeth fighting for purchase and dominance, doors closed after him long before the night is over.

But all their eyes had looked through him; he's another warm body to burrow into, another distraction.

Max looks into him, pulling out the parts that are wrong and displaying them for him to see. Then plowing through to find the other parts, the parts he'd long ago left for dead.

"I won't hurt you," he feels the need to tell her and she looks away.

She laughs, a nervous chuckle like glass breaking. She taps her fingers against his scalp, buying time. "Why?" she finally asks again. _Why me? Why this?_

"I don't know," he says simply. _You make me feel alive_. "Tell me no. Tell me to stop. Tell me whatever. But say something."

Her breath stills in her chest and his does, too. He hasn't even realized he's done it until the lack of oxygen burns in his lungs.

"Okay," she whispers and leans into his grasp. He feels her lips sift into his hair. Panic flows through his veins like ice water as he raises back to his feet and his lips meets hers again.

He doesn't know how to be soft. When he was younger, he crushed ladybugs in his hand and crashed vases when tracing his finger over the patterns. He has been wind and fire for as long as he's lived. Somehow, he has to find the will to not break the girl standing before him, her hands fluttering at his chest as if she's afraid he'll explode at her touch.

But then the panic is flushed out when she kisses him more insistently, when her heart stammers against his as she presses closer. He just wants to be closer. He flops down onto the bed, pulling her down next to him. Her legs slide between his and he feels his muscles tighten to keep from slamming his hips against hers. He traces lazy circles at the base of her back as he deepens the kiss. Her own hands sweep down his shoulders, brush tentatively back across his chest. As they dip towards his stomach and venture lower, his breath hitches and she yanks her hands away with a nervous laugh.

"Sorry," she whispers, even as he shakes his head at her apology, and her fingers trickle more determinedly up his arms. They explore the taut lines of his forearms, before sliding up to his shoulders, and he tenses against her touch.

He pulls one arm free, kissing the base of her wrist and tracing the veins that line south. They beat furiously against his lips, energy and warmth flooding into him.

He remembers holding Rachel as her life slipped from her, her veins hard and cold against his touch. He remembers Kate's runaway pulse leaping from him when nothing else could.

The panic flares again for one blazing second, before he finds Max's pulse. It beats steady and stubbornly, her arm relaxed before the kisses he dusts across her skin.

He lets her arm drop and searches for her mouth again, his arms diving under her shirt to find the warmth buried there. His hips meet hers, hesitant but strong as they seek to find something closer, warmer.

"It's okay," she murmurs when his hands still at the button to her pants and she's already trying to kick them free.

A loud chirp breaks through his thoughts like an axe and he jerks away from her. She looks startled, but fumbles for the phone in her pocket, scanning the message that's flashed on the screen. "Chloe's on her way," she mutters and looks towards him, tentative. She looks as she's broken free of some spell.

He knows she's waiting for some kind of answer, some kind of dismissal or argument, but he just stares at her, watching as her eyes sweep from one side of his face to the other. He can't tell if she wants to stay, if she'd rather go, if she'd rather never see his face again. "Okay," he finally says, clearing his throat. "Okay. Stay in your dorm when you get there." He rests his hand on the doorknob, but he can't open it.

"Nathan," she begins, but she doesn't argue. She doesn't agree. She just walks to the door, waiting.

"Stay safe, Caulfield," he repeats, yanking the door open.

She nods and then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

He leans his head against the wall and sighs. He glances at his own phone, which lies neglected on his desk. He reaches for it, about to scroll through his messages, then stops. He won't do this to himself. If she stays or if she leaves, he can't control it, and dwelling on it won't make it any better for him. But he feels empty as he stands there, the screen of his phone white in his hand. He feels as if she has scooped something from his chest, leaving him hollow, and then leaving him all together. He lets his phone clatter to the floor as he curls onto his sofa, willing sleep to take over for at least a couple of hours. He's rewarded with no dreams, no voices, no eyes. It's the most he's slept in weeks, even in that small burst of time.

He jerks awake from the bleep of his phone and squints at its brightness as he tries to read the incoming text.

 _I'm sorry._

 _I'll come back later?_

 _Have you gone to the station yet?_

He glances at his backpack where the binder still rests. He checks the time, and while he's only been out an hour, it's still an hour wasted.

 _headin ther now_

He feels the earlier emptiness close in on itself, callous over. If she comes back, he doesn't know if he could close the door against her face. He kicks at the door instead, kicking it until he can't feel anything but the throbbing of his foot against the wood and then he can't feel that either.

But it doesn't matter. The red binder screams his fate from his bag, some unknown song beating time with the thud of his heart. There won't be time for girls to press their doubts and second thoughts against his door.

He slips his bag over his shoulder and limps out the door, again finding himself split into two directions. In one, he strides casually towards his truck, and when he reaches the station, he hands over the binder with no regrets. He's handing over his problem, the hellish semester he's buried himself in, Mark's eyes scanning for fault points at every juncture of his body.

In the other, his skin is crawling with pinpricks and eyes burrowing into every pore. He scratches his arms as he bumps into the walls. There's a good chance he could be chucking himself away as well. A good chance that he will. A good chance that the last time he sees Max's face will be with her pretty little smile twisted in horror as she stares back at him in every reflective surface he passes. A good chance that wherever they lock him up there will be no reflective surface. Only white, strong and sturdy and silent against his screams.

He wants so badly for it to be the first one, that he ignores the crawling in his skin, straightens the wavering of his walk.

He's nearly made it to his truck in the parking lot before his phone bleeps again and he pauses to read it.

 _Okay, I lied._

 _Come see me instead?_

He frowns, scrolls up through the conversation and reads it again. And again. Then his mouth twitches into a smile as he replies.

 _make up ur fukin mind caulfield_

A second later, his phone bleeps.

 _Please?_

He's already heading back. His legs move before he can realize what they're doing. He feels the seconds to his countdown stutter and freeze and he lunges forward blindly.

But when he reaches the girls' dorms, he notices two things. One is that the door isn't closed all the way; rather, one of the hinges is slightly bent as if something had hit it or tried to push it the wrong way.

The second is the needle that's tossed to the side of a nearby bush, almost out of sight, but still catching a glimpse of sunlight against its metal. He recognizes that needle immediately.

"Fuck. No." His voice doesn't even sound like his anymore.

His phone bleeps again.

 _Not there. Try again._

 _Better hurry or you'll have to bury me, too._

 _Focus, Nathan._

He's never focused on anything as much as he is at that moment, Max's face embedded into his head with Rachel's dead eyes and Kate's slack mouth and skeleton hands at her throat. He reaches into his glove compartment and fumbles for the gun inside. "I will end you, fucker," he whispers and hopes to fucking God that he's right.


End file.
